Shadow on the Sun
by Maralae
Summary: Her voice is her violence and the snow is her tears; and now she's going to sing her own song. Follow Solveig, the Dragonborn, as she battles against ancient evils, her own past, and some very annoying voices in her head. Eventual DB/Vilkas.


**Author's Notes: Good day to you, and thank you very much for reading this / planning to read this / thinking maybe you could read this / having clicked on the wrong link and accidentally opening this page!**

**Before we start, I have a few things to say. Firstly, I am not a native English speaker, and at the moment I don't have a beta, so there may (and probably will) be mistakes here. If you spot any, and I mean ANY, don't be afraid to correct me – I'll be more than grateful and shower you in cyber hugs or cookies or handshakes, whatever catches your fancy.**

**Secondly, this fic will NOT follow the events of the game religiously. I'll expand on many dialogs, make up several scenarios, and that sort of stuff. So if you're looking for a fic that rewrites the game word by word and event by event, I'm afraid this will not suit your tastes. I can, however, assure you that the things I make up will remain within the realm of Skyrim!logic, so don't worry, I'm not going to pull a giant talking mushroom-angel-rifle out of my nether regions and claim I'm doing it for the sake of originality. I'm not that insane.**

**Thirdly, I love and crave reviews. I feed on them. I also feed on rainwater and butterflies, but I mostly feed on reviews, so toss 'em my way. Constructive criticism?, yes please. Random words of praise?, won't hear me complaining (actually you might hear me squeeing like a crazy fangirl). Random words of dislike?, hey, can't please anyone, and it may help me improve.**

**Fourthly, the fic's rated M for blood, gore, language, and occassional werewolf boners. There might be smut, even though I fail at it, but I'll give it my best shot. (You have no idea how much I respect and admire writers that are able to write smut in languages that are not their own; I have such a hard time doing it. It's so frustrating when you don't even know the name of the body parts involved and it's all like, 'she touched his thing and there was a thing there and some other thing I don't know and everything was erotic in a very vague, IKEA-ish way.')**

**Fifthly, if you see things that don't make much sense now (like Sol's references to a mysterious malicious mystic mage man,) give it a little time. I plan on expanding on my Dovahkiin's background, so everything will be explained eventually, and probably sooner than you think. ;D I'm sort of an infodump whore, but don't worry, I won't write an encyclopedia.**

**Aaaand sixthly and lastly... thanks to anyone who reads this. Seriously. My love goes out to you. :3**

**P.S: I LOVE WRITING AUTHOR'S NOTES AND THAT LAST ITEM WAS SO NOT THE LAST. Ain't I just sly. Mwahahah.**

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><p><strong><span>Shadow on the Sun<span>**

_From the mists of the mountains a deafening call_  
><em>Bellows down over the plains<em>  
><em>On a host of battle-worn ears it does fall<em>  
><em>Pushing out through the thunder and rain<em>

_(...)_

_And my voice is my violence_  
><em>Clear the sky's frozen tears<em>  
><em>And no more we'll be silent<em>  
><em>With this Sovngarde song in our ears<em>

**- Miracle of Sound, 'Sovngarde Song.'**

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><p><strong>Chapter One – Awakened<strong>

There was a very particular quality to Solveig's dreams: they always felt like somebody else's memories. They might have been, for all she knew – the sensations were so vivid they could make her believe that was, in fact, the case. It unsettled her slightly; she knew dreams couldn't harm her, but the idea of having a life aside from her own go through her head every night was rather creepy. She wasn't sure exactly _what_ that damned wizard had done to her mind, but she sure as hell didn't like it.

There was another very particular quality to Solveig's dreams: they always managed to reflect what was going on around her as she slept, in their own twisted, confusing, senseless way.

In her dreams, she saw endless snowy plains, and flying horses, and mute people who kept jumping off cliffs that appeared out of nowhere. She saw a man who cried over a river, and a god that was both a god and not a god. She heard everyone shout –even the mute people–, and she herself shouted calling for aid (she didn't know why, but she did it anyway because everyone else was doing it,) and then a blond man with very bright eyes extended her hand and helped her up. That was when she realised she'd been lying down the whole time; and upon standing, she saw that she was actually _flying_, high above everyone else (save for the blond man who was somehow suspended in mid air,) and then she fell down, and woke up with a gasp.

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was fur, fur everywhere. Scared, she jumped up and yelled "Wolf!," only to notice that the fur belonged to a coat which, in turn, belonged to a very grim looking man. But it was too late for her to bite back her words, and so she sat in a carriage surrounded by three strange men who looked at her as if she was very crazy or very amusing or very stupid or green with five arms.

"Did you have a nightmare, kinsman?," a blond, kind-looking Nord sitting in front of her asked gently.

"Yes. No. Sort of?," she shrugged, trying her best not to blush. "I just... woke up and saw the fur and... well, I thought there was a wolf sitting next to me. Which probably doesn't make much sense come think of it. But I'd just woken up."

The Nord man made a grimace, as if he was trying to hold back laughter, and nodded.

"Understandable," he said. "It is good to see you awake at last – we thought you'd never wake up."

"I wouldn't have, if I hadn't fallen down," she grumbled. "I was having such nice dreams. Well, _nice_ is probably not the best word to describe them, but still."

Solveig tried to stretch, if only to ease the pain in her aching muscles, and found it oddly difficult to do so. She looked down at her hands, and for the first time noticed they were bound.

"Um, mister," she said nervously, "would you mind telling me why am I bound? I don't punch in my sleep. I think."

The Nord man sighed and shook his head sadly, staring at her through misty pale eyes. She gulped – she knew that kind of look all too well. He'd tell her very, very bad news that she definitely wouldn't want to hear, and then he'd say he was awfully sorry for having had to deliver these very bad news, and then she would wish she could just go back to sleep and dream of more pleasant things, like warm baths and homemade food and unicorns.

"We are prisoners of the Imperial Legion, kinsman," he whispered, "and the future ahead of us doesn't exactly seem bright. I am truly sorry."

_Just as expected,_ she thought tiredly, and groaned.

"I am a prisoner? Why? What in Oblivion have I done?"

The other Nord smiled wistfully. "It's not about what you've done, friend – it's about who you are and who you happened to run into. From what I've gathered, you were crossing the border when you met us. It was shortly after that we were ambushed by the Imperials, and since you are a Nord too, they thought you were with us."

"But I'm not even wearing your armor!," she protested. "I'm wearing... rags. What's so threatening about me?," she turned to the other prisoner in the carriage, a sickly-looking, twitchy, brown-haired man, "... or him?"

"He's a horse thief," the other Nord spat out. "He just picked a very bad time to commit his petty crimes."

"And you tell me!," the thief yelled in such a high-pitched voice that Solveig couldn't help but giggle. "It's all your fault. Empire was nice and lazy until-"

"I don't know if 'nice' is the best word to describe the Empire," she said nonchalantly. "'Lazy' maybe, especially fits the Emperor after he's had one mug of mead too many, but... nice?"

The thief glared at her and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted –again- by the Imperial soldier who was driving the carriage.

"Enough!, all of you, shut up!" he screamed.

"Or what, you'll arrest us?," Solveig raised an eyebrow. "Ooooh, I'm sorry mister scary Imperial man. I'll shut up just because you asked so nicely. And by the Divines, straighten your back... is the Emperor too busy scratching his beard to teach you how to sit properly?"

The horse thief made a pitiful sound, something between a sob and a whine, and the Nord man chuckled under his breath.

"You are, indeed, a true Nord, my friend," he smiled warmly. "It is good that you can joke in the face of death."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of dying," Solveig said casually, and tried to wave a hand dismissively – but her bindings made it hard for her to do so, and instead she ended up flapping her hands wildly, as if she was trying to scare away a very annoying bug.

The dark-haired man whimpered.

"Divines have mercy, you are all absolutely and utterly crazy! Just like all Stormcloaks I'd wager. We were perfectly fine and then you just _had_ to come along and mess stuff up needlessly because it caught your fancy. That Ulfric lad's such a bright one...," he rolled his eyes.

"Mind your words, _thief_," the Nord man said through gritted teeth. "This here is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim," he pointed to the fur coat.

That was when Solveig paid attention to the man in the fur coat, who she had almost forgotten due to his being very silent during the course of their conversation. She now saw why: he was gagged. His eyes, however, said what his mouth could not, and so he stared at them all with an intensity that made her shudder; it was almost as if he had_ I'm so tired of your constant chattering, please shut up right now before I go berserk and feed you all to the horses_ written in his pupils.

"He WHAT!," the dark-haired man shrieked. "S-So if this is Ulfric... they are... oh Divines!, we're going to get executed!"

"I've only been awake for about five minutes, and even _I_ had noticed that already," Solveig pointed out rather unhelpfully. The thief just sobbed.

"Calm down," the Nord man said, his voice taking on a gentler tone, "think of something else. Let's talk about our homes... a Nord's last thoughts should be of home," he leaned back in his seat and smiled longingly."I'll start. I am Ralof, and I hail from Riverwood, a small town not far from Whiterun. Bleak Falls Barrow looms right over it, but it is still a wonderful place with a lovely sight, and one that I will regret not seeing ever again. How about you, thief?"

"I am Lokir," he said grimly. "Lokir of Rorikstead. Soon to be dead."

"Ooh, that rhymed!," Solveig smiled widely. "If we ever get out of here, would you mind if I used it for a song?, it's pretty catchy."

Lokir stared at her for a second and then shook his head slowly, in a manner that denoted he doubted her sanity and/or mental capabilities.

"And it's my turn, isn't it?, well, unless the bright ray of sunshine over there has something more to say," she pointed to the thief in the corner of the wagon, and he just glared at her silently. "My turn then. I'm Solveig and I'm from Skyrim. And I say 'Skyrim' in general because I consider every single part of this land as my home. Well, except for the tombs, they're sorta scary. Ancestors really did know how to build a place you wouldn't feel like ransacking. Uh, don't ask me how I know."

Ralof looked at her curiously. "But weren't you caught crossing the border?"

"Yeah, well, I lived in Elsweyr for five years or so. Can't remember why I went there in the first place really. The food's nice enough, I suppose, but there's so much fur everywhere and it clings to your clothes... uh, not to mention that little problem with the skooma," she wrinkled her nose. "Quite a... complicated thing."

She rested against the border of the wagon and stared at the trees that passed her by.

"But I'm happy, you know. I lived an interesting life and will die an unlikely death," she smiled and shrugged, "and I get to see my homeland again before I go knock on Sovngarde's gates. That's a good thing."

They all remained silent as the carriage approached a small town. As they passed by the signs on the side of the road, she could read an inscription marking the place as Helgen. The name was familiar to her – she was pretty sure she hadn't been there before, but she had probably read about it in a book, or perhaps she'd overheard the Imperial soldiers or her fellow prisoners talking about it as she slept. It wouldn't surprise her: for some reason, her brain seemed to be able to process more information when she was asleep than when she was awake.

The wagon advanced with an excruciating slowness through the streets. Some curious onlookers gathered around them, yelling things or asking things or simply staring; overprotective parents kept the children locked inside the houses, so that they didn't witness the grim spectacle that was about to ensue.

And then they stopped.

"End of the line," the driver said.

_And end of my life_, Solveig thought. Then she considered making a song out of those phrases, and decided they would make a pretty good one. She even came up with a tune for it.

It was a pity she wouldn't live to sing it in front of a crowd, but, for what it was worth, she hummed it under her breath as she hopped off the wagon.

It was the way she'd always wanted to leave, with a song in her tongue; and that fact was enough to keep her happy even as she marched towards the block – even though the executioner's axe still dripped blood from his former victim, even though she had been imprisoned simply because she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, even though she was about to get killed because an Imperial captain was in a bad mood.

None of it mattered, because every note was a gateway to a better space and time.


End file.
